


Second to the Door

by Sporadic_Writer



Series: In the Fishbowl [2]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Allusions to domestic violence, F/F, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sporadic_Writer/pseuds/Sporadic_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Lestrade finds Mycroft unnerving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second to the Door

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and posted this on LJ in 2012, and I am just archiving it here.

Status of work: Complete.  
Characters and/or pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade. Hints of John/Sherlock. Hints of Clara/Harry. Hints of Donovan/Anderson. Other OC relationships.  
Rating: R.  
Warnings, kinks & contents: Description of grotesque murder. References to domestic violence. Allusions to gender roles and perceptions. Sexual situations.  
Length: About 52,482 words. My word count is acting up.

A/N: I never expected to write a sequel to "From the Beginning" since I had written only one-shots that are very loosely connected with each other. I had things end on quite a happy, optimistic note for Mycroft and Lestrade, but realistically speaking, those two would need to really work at it to make each other fit, and this is my deeper take on it. Originally, I just wanted to see what would happen when Lestrade realized that Sherlock knew about his relationship with Mycroft. Hmm, this was actually meant to be a funny story...I'm such a romantic.

Here's the prequel just in case: From the Beginning.

 

Lestrade knew that plenty of problems would show up after he got involved with Mycroft Holmes. He fully expected that one day he would call Mycroft or show up at Mycroft’s flat, and nobody would answer. The man would just be gone. Right into the ether.

Lestrade also knew that chances were good that one day Mycroft would be sitting at the table across from him and telling him in a calm, unaffected voice that they could no longer be affiliated. And oh, yes, Mycroft would use that exact word.

Other disquieting, humiliating possibilities danced around in Lestrade’s head. But Lestrade really had not expected this. Even though he really should have. Great bollocks. Was he any kind of copper? His old father would roll over in his nicely tended grave. Or rather, come back from the great beyond to shout at him in shame.

He had already been feeling vaguely uneasy about sleeping with a near-stranger three hours after meeting him and then spending three days out of every week at said near-stranger's house. He expected his old fashioned father would be fine with his being gay but not so much his going around making time with someone who just happened to cross his path. On the other hand, it didn't count as promiscuity if the fling turned into a relationship, did it?

And lately, Lestrade had been waking up in the night, alone or otherwis,e and wondering if he hadn't made a rather idiotic decision to take up with Mycroft Holmes. But he figured that it was rather normal to have such worries about any relationship, and over the weekend, he had been pleasantly surprised to find that Mycroft also had a fondness for cheese fondue. That revelation had made Mycroft seem so ordinary, so endearing, and Lestrade had come into work on Monday feeling so content with life, and mid-morning he'd gotten a pleasant text from Mycroft to have luncheon together.

All signs had been for a lovely time. It had been an uncomfortably posh restaurant, but good food and even better wine and excellent company had made up for it. But then Mycroft had clasped his hands together, and studied them nonchalantly for a long moment before looking back up and holding Lestrade’s eyes with his own.

“I’m afraid that Sherlock is aware of our,” pause, “relationship.”

In shock, fork angling down instead of at his mouth, Lestrade had fumbled his plate as he tried to avoid staining the tablecloth and managed to knock over his wine glass instead. “Bloody brilliant!” He threw his fork down. And stained his trousers too.

The rest of the afternoon had fallen along the same unhappy vein. After the shock, Lestrade hadn’t been in any mood to try persuading Mycroft to extend their lunch break and had wandered off back to the station in a half-daze that later turned disappointed when he realized his lost chance. He could have tried to guilt Mycroft into some alone time before national security concerns called; as it was, he wasn't sure when he'd see Mycroft again in person.

Desperate, Lestrade now eyed the sludge in the coffee pot and poured himself the dregs, mixing well with sugar and powdered milk. He slumped in his chair and told himself not to be so pathetic. He was a grown man! He wasn’t going to be intimidated by Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was bloody brilliant, but he was also a dead ringer for a scarecrow, and as a rebellious teenager, Lestrade had gone around tipping over those straw men for shits and giggles. Couldn’t do that to Sherlock, granted, but the thought was cheering.

Lestrade’s mood further lightened as he remembered that Sherlock hardly seemed to notice or care what Mycroft did. After all, hadn’t he been the one to tell Sherlock that Mycroft really hated those fig rolls? Could make the man hurl. And then Sherlock had looked so surprised—and then gleeful…Right.

Lestrade checked the clock, which was ominously pointing near the six, and resolved to get some work done no matter his mood. He also made a note to blackmail Sherlock into never trying to harass Mycroft with fig rolls. But then he'd need to talk to Sherlock. In person. Damn it all.

Hours later, at home, Lestrade managed to put the horrifying revelation from Mycroft out of his mind and slept fitfully for six hours before heading back off to work. Mournfully, he thought it would serve him right if he got arrested for DUI, driving under insomnia.

 

Sleep-deprived from vague but still ominous dreams, Lestrade tried not to drool onto the paperwork as his head wobbled up and down.

“Body found, Detective Inspector!” Donovan opened the door and poked her head through. “Near the wharf by—well, don’t you look a fright? I thought you took a long lunch yesterday for leisure.”

“I thought so too,” Lestrade grumbled as he grabbed his coat and straightened the lapels. He banished the Holmeses from his mind and hoped that the new case wouldn’t fall within the bounds of Sherlock's interest. “Where?”

The crime wasn’t particularly strange. Not at first. Dead body by the wharf could only have so many stories.

But this one was first found tossed on the docks, and later, within the ten minutes it took for the police to arrive, beautifully strung up in a wide web of netting in a perfect display, amidst the heavy cold fog of the early morn.

“Is that really?” One of the techies breathed in horror and awe.

“Mermaid,” Lestrade said blankly to Donovan, who stood beside him, mouth open in speechless shock and growing disgust.

Long, glossy blondish hair streamed wetly over a delicate face, which used to be beautiful but was now merely swollen pale purple, and hung down the woman’s bare shoulders. It was already grotesque.

But then one's primary attention would fall to the immense fish tail swinging limply below the shredded green sequined skirts.

And the white foam tinted with red strands dripping from the gash of a mouth left.

Fighting the urge to avert his eyes, Lestrade peered past the hanging strings of cloth and got a distinct idea of how, physically speaking, a human woman could get a fair sized fish tail attached to her hind region.

Lestrade closed his eyes in disgust, as he fought off vertigo. “Never knew that London could have so many sick bastards around.”

“Some freak with a fetish, I’d wager, sir,” Donovan said, her lips tight with anger, almost trembling. “All those stories about mermaids and selkie and whatnot—they call to the disturbed.”

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully. “We can send a few around to ask the fishermen about any weirdos hanging around, showing too much interest in the sea. Maybe ring up a few of the local professors to get us some information on the lore.”

Anderson snapped a few more photos of the crime scene, as the other technicians started combing the ground for evidence.

“Are you calling in the freak?” he asked sourly.

His tone matched Lestrade’s mood exactly, as the detective inspector realized that he could be meeting Sherlock a lot earlier than he was ready for.

“Maybe. It’s early yet. Maybe we’ll catch the bastard in the next couple of days.”

Donovan shook her head exasperatedly. “Sometimes you call him in, but the rest of the time, how does he bloody know about the cases?”

“Got spies maybe,” Anderson said. “I see those gormless brats of his loitering around sometimes.”

“Better they work for Sherlock than someone else,” Lestrade demurred. “But we’ll see. If we need his help, we remember we’re doing it for a victim. Can’t let pride get in the way of that.

“Donovan, take a few officers with you. See if you can’t knock up a few witnesses. And me, I’m going to the library.”

The young dark-haired librarian—name tag was labeled Susan Darcy—looked at him askance when he asked for the recommended copy of The Little Mermaid.

“I expect you’re not interested in the Disney version.”

“No, got the original version? Mermaid dies at the end? Depressing as all get out?” Lestrade had a vague memory of being traumatized as a tyke at the realization that the pretty mermaid girl from the ocean would lose her lover and die alone.

“We do; we have several copies as a matter of fact. Would you like an annotated copy, or just the illustrated story?”

“Illustrated? They published that version for children?” Lestrade raised an eyebrow in surprise at the news.

Ms. Darcy looked amused. “It is a bit dark, but ultimately, Andersen meant it to be an optimistic tale. The chance of earning a soul was really quite something back then.”

Lestrade flipped through the pages. Thank God the story was only ten pages long. He could finish it in less than five minutes. But he might not interpret the story the same way as their homicidal maniac did.

“Don’t suppose you have an expert on literature or folklore to recommend?” Lestrade asked, feeling a little sheepish.

To his surprise, the librarian seemed to think nothing of his request. “Oh, we have all sorts of books and articles analyzing the sexist, cultural, religious, social, imperialistic—you get the gist—underpinnings of the story.”

“Bit complex for a fairy tale, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Fairy tales still make up a significant portion of our culture these days. I just saw a movie trailer on TV for a modern version of Sleeping Beauty. Rated R, I’m afraid, seeing as how it’s based on the original version, where the Prince is decidedly not a nice man.

“But I haven’t answered your earlier question. The local college has a Professor Martin Rowlands who lectures on comparative literature. I expect he’d be quite chuffed if the police were to ask him for his help.”

Lestrade’s smile lost some of its warmth as he remembered Sherlock. As long as this professor fellow didn’t have the same leanings towards condescension and bloody mindedness, they’d get along fine.

Since they’d actually been having a slow week, Lestrade decided to keep a visit to the college for the next day and went to check if the autopsy reports or any other lab findings were ready.

“Not as one would think. She wasn’t drowned despite her proximity to the sea,” the medical examiner, Brian Patel, revealed. “Rather, it seems that she’d been strangled; our murderer was clever enough to wear gloves of some kind. We’ll check the fibers, but they may well be some everyday pair that anyone handy around the house would wear.”

“There’s still a similarity, though,” Donovan pointed out. “Drowning, you don’t get any air; being asphyxiated, you still don’t get any air.”

“It could be symbolic,” the medical examiner allowed. “If our fellow wants to make such a spectacle that he’d mutilate the poor woman in this way, he’s probably carrying out some kind of ritual.”

Inadvertently, they all stared down at the body half-covered by a sheet. Her modesty wouldn’t be preserved much longer.

The medical examiner solemnly pulled the sheet down to where her knees would be. He made a vague gesture.

“As you can see, the woman’s legs were cut off around mid-thigh, so that the fish tail—perhaps from a salmon, we’ll need to check with a fisherman—could match the lines of her hips.”

“What do the lines of the cuts tell you? Could it be a medical man? Or a butcher?” Lestrade had his doubts about chasing after urban legends, but he’d learned from his own experience and heard from his fellow brothers in uniform that life could be considerably more fantastic than the storybooks.

The medical examiner pursed his lips in an expression of doubt. “No, the cuts are decidedly amateurish. I wager it’s simply a common man gone mad.”

Lestrade’s phone vibrated then, so he excused himself to check the incoming text message.

From John: Is Sherlock harassing you?

Lestrade frowned and typed back, “No.” Then, feeling suspicious, he added, “Why?”

From John: He’s not harassing me, either. Or anyone else.

Lestrade considered that for a moment, his mind filling with all sorts of horrors that Sherlock could get up to without interference from his saner half.

To M: Where’s your brother?

Mycroft must be having a relatively relaxed day since the reply comes within a few minutes.

From M: In Tibet.

Of all the possible answers, Lestrade would have put this one on the list of “Never.”

To M: Why is he in Tibet of all places?

Even as he hit send, Lestrade wondered why he should care. He’d gotten a reprieve, hadn’t he?

From M: He’s trying to come to terms with a revelation.

To M: ABOUT US???

From M: I gave him food for thought, lest he feel too quick to judge.

To M: ?????

From M: Enjoy your week of quiet, Gregory.

Lestrade gave up trying to understand. He sent a reassuring text to John, who apparently shared similar sentiments.

From John: All right then. Cheers, mate.

 

Nelson Community College turned out to be a large campus filled with aging, ivy-covered brownstone buildings that seemed more dignified than decrepit.

Professor Rowlands waved them into his cluttered office with a genial hand as he wrapped up his advice to the worried, lip-chewing student.

“Well, now, here’s a treat. Never spoke to the police before. Ah, ha, not quite true; in my youth, yes, I was quite wild.” The professor’s bright eyes beamed at them from within the disheveled mass of gray-flecked brown hair that surrounded his head.

“You might have read about the incident down at the docks. We were hoping that you could give us some insight,” Lestrade explained. He hoped the dotty professor wouldn’t be the type to exclaim about the killer’s mad genius. He had quite enough of that from Sherlock. He could repress the urge to use fisticuffs only so much.

“Oh, yes, I did.” The professor looked a completely different man as he absorbed the revelation and became quite grave.

“How may I help you with this heinous crime?” he asked finally.

“It looks like our murderer is a fan of The Little Mermaid. We were wondering if you could review the crime scene photos and point us in a likely direction.”

Utterly silent, the professor carefully examined one photo after another, and at the end of the pile, he went through the whole thing again. Then he sat for a moment, apparently lost in thought, before getting up with a sigh and rifling through the books piled atop his bookcase.

The professor finally pulled out a small thin book, and he blew the dust off the cover fondly before gently folding back the pages to show them the picture.

Long hair streaming, the young woman’s face was filled with despair on the verge of transforming into joy, as she plummeted towards the sea, and her body began to change to sea foam.

“The original little mermaid lost her tail; she lost her voice; and she lost her people—all for the sake of the human prince. And her love was not requited, not in the usual sense. Hans Christian Andersen was quite a religious fellow, and to him, the mermaid received what really mattered: the love of God. She won the chance to earn a soul.”

“What does that mean then?” Donovan asked. “Is the murderer supposed to be the prince? Or…God?”

“Maybe it’s her father,” Lestrade mused. “The old man wasn’t happy that his girl went off her handle for a human.”

“A bigot then? One of those weirdos against miscegenation?” Donovan considered.

“I’m no expert, but I don’t believe that the culprit is likely to be the father or a relative,” the professor demurred. “Somehow the crime strikes me as one of passion. But don’t take my word for it; talk to my wife, Professor Curran. She works in the women’s studies department, and she knows much more about the violence that can present in social ties.”

The professor chuckled ruefully, as he handed over the book. “My wife…she’s quite fond of disparaging my fairy tales and myths for their pernicious influence on young women.”

“That’s not a bit awkward for you?” Donovan asked, her face unreadable.

Professor Rowlands smiled, his face briefly young and foolish. “‘We fell in love, despite our differences, and once we did, something rare and beautiful was created.’”

Lestrade nodded slowly. “One of yours?”

“Heavens, no,” the professor laughed. “Nicholas Sparks. I’m quite a fan. Romance can suit the old just as well as the young, you know.”

Professor Curran was thin, angular, and more prone to frowns than smiles. In sharp contrast to her husband’s welcoming mien, the professor shooed a weeping student out of her office with brisk words. “None of that now; you talk to that man of yours and let him know you expect to earn a degree. What does he expect you to do all day then? Iron his socks? Brew his tea? Those days are over! You hear me?”

Professor Curran turned to them with an arched brow, and Lestrade readied himself to explain, but the professor waved him off.

“No need.” She sat down in her chair, clicking at her computer. “Martin sent me an e-mail; you wouldn’t believe it to look at him, but he’s quite handy with technology.”

Donovan handed over the photographs, and they watched as Professor Curran scrutinized the crime scene, finally stopping at one photograph in particular and seeming engrossed with it.

Peering over her desk, the two detectives could see that she was interested in the close-up of the victim’s face.

Unfortunately, the swollen nature had made it rather difficult to post an accurate sketch and description of the woman, and so far, no likely inquiries from the public had been made concerning her identity.

“Curious,” the professor murmured before shaking her head. She went back through the pile and pulled out the one the coroner had taken during the autopsy.

Professor Curran regarded the photo with immense distaste before pointing at the disfigured thighbones. “I expect the murderer derived great satisfaction in cutting off her legs, may have done so to mimic the detail about the mermaid suffering from leg pains, but probably enjoyed it far more for the sense of weakening—immobilizing—the victim.”

Donovan exchanged a look with Lestrade and pursed her lips. “The Detective Inspector and I are at cross ends with the perpetrator. Maybe you could be the tiebreak. Family or lover?”

The professor chuckled dryly. “Family can be just as perverse, but in this particular case, I doubt it’s a relative. I notice the woman’s upper body is rather exposed, and that rag of a dress hardly covers much. To me, it could be the woman’s lover or a spurned acquaintance that wished to shame her.”

Lestrade thanked the professor for her time and left his card in case she had further observations that she’d like to share. He checked his watch and increased his pace. He had another lunch date with Mycroft. Hopefully, this would end more cheerily than the last one.

 

After sharing a savory treacle tart, Mycroft set his teacup down with a soft satisfied hum, and Lestrade waggled his brows playfully. “And what’s your afternoon look like?”

Mycroft’s smile warmed his insides, but the smile was not one of promise but of mild regret, as Mycroft pulled his hand away from Lestrade’s.

“I wanted to ask a favor.” Mycroft tucked his umbrella under his arm as he got up and pushed the chair in with one smooth motion.

“Yeah?” Lestrade asked, wary, as he did the same. Mycroft didn't strike him as someone who generally asked for favors, more orders, but he supposed that Mycroft knew how to treat a romantic partner.

Mycroft was silent until the car had pulled up, and they were sitting inside, facing each other.

“I require some information from the inhabitants of 12 Hackney Road, but I'm afraid that they are not being very cooperative.”

“Don't you have people for that?” Lestrade looked skeptical, and he meant for it to show. “And you think a regular copper like me would get better results than one of your lot?”

Mycroft sounded almost whimsical, as he replied. “I believe in your abilities, Gregory.” And Lestrade fell blushingly silent at that.

Upon arriving at the two-story slant-roofed house, Lestrade found himself on the sidewalk and walking to the entrance and ringing the doorbell. He hadn't any idea how that happened, but it was too late to go running off like a truant schoolboy, so he sighed and put on a pleasant smile and hoped the bug put inside his coat didn't have technical difficulties.

“Hallo?” The middle-aged woman opening the door looked a bit suspicious as she peered at him from around the edge. “What do you want?”

Lestrade fully understood her reaction, and despite the full-body twitch he had to fight off, he didn't turn around to check whether the black car was still there, waiting to see that he got the job done.

Bloody Mycroft could have at least given him a script or something. Lestrades decided half-heartedly to wing it and get it over with.

“I'm head of the neighborhood association. Sorry I haven't introduced myself earlier, but the bloke I had to replace needed some seeing to. He hasn't been himself lately, so I've had to take over. My name's Henry Stiles; I live over there in the yellow house.”

The woman looked a little less nervous, and the crack opened a foot wider, as she came out further to give Henry Stiles a good look. “So you're the gentleman who owns that beauty; I always did like a little color around here. Did you plant those petunias yourself?”

“Well, I'd like to say so,” Lestrade tried an amiable laugh. “But I had to ask my old aunty out to tea and bring her back to have a look. She has a proper green thumb.”

Lestrade worried about piling on the clichés, but the woman seemed to believe them, and she finally opened the door fully to offer her hand. “Sorry about my shameful manners. Should have introduced myself earlier: Sheryl Ramsbury.

“You had a question earlier about the neighborhood association?” she asked. “I'm afraid that I've been rather busy with my catering business. I haven't been coming to the meetings.”

“Oh, I just wanted to come by and see if you had anything you'd like us to discuss at the next potluck,” Lestrade bluffed, mind working furiously to figure out what exactly Mycroft would be getting out of this. Probably nothing, unless the man had just fired his caterer.

To his surprise, Mrs. Ramsbury blushed and then looked down before flicking a conspiratorial look at him. “You won't—goodness, I wouldn't blame you for thinking me mad, but I haven't felt easy for a while now, so I suppose, well...”

Lestrade spoke as soothingly as he could. “I'm here for anything you would like to talk about, Mrs. Ramsbury. It's important to keep an eye out in the neighborhood. Especially in this day and age.”

Shaking her head, Mrs. Ramsbury agreed, “Oh, my, I couldn't say it better myself. Lord knows that I haven't slept a wink since those ruffian boys zoomed past on their motorcycles two nights ago. And now I keep seeing that old grey car idling across the street every Wednesday!”

She leaned forward and whispered, “I just know the driver's here for something not nice!”

Lestrade felt much more at ease with this revelation; the boys at the station always said that he had a knack for helping old biddies feel better about their nosiness. He listened attentively as Mrs. Ramsbury gave him the exact plates and make of the mysterious car.

He thanked her kindly, and seeing as how he still didn't know what Mycroft was expecting, he asked a few questions about her catering business to be neighborly and then scooted off her porch and walked south for a few blocks before the black car came up beside him.

Lestrade slid in and gave Mycroft a thoroughly unamused look. “Mind filling me in now? I just spent ten minutes of my life putting one over that nice woman.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said a bit absently, tapping away at his phone. “Much obliged, Gregory, but Lenore Astor would have been unlikely to speak for any amount of time with one of our regular agents.”

He finished his text message and sent it off, satisfied, before continuing the conversation. “We do have a particular friend who specializes in this sort of reconnaissance; unfortunately, Mr. Ellington is getting on in years. He broke a hip two days ago and has been in hospital since.”

“You only have one of those friends?” Lestrade asked doubtfully. “And none in training?”

Mycrfot shrugged incongruously. “Mr. Ellington has the unusual skill of appearing trustworthy, harmless, yet he could kill a man at fifty paces—he's a very good shot. I had hopes of recruiting John Watson before he made his allegiances nonnegotiable. And it seems that with this new wave of British citizens, most enter the M16 with grand hopes of living like James Bond. There is not as much call for the subtler positions, and very few can hide the fact that they've been trained to kill.”

“I would think acting and general dissembling classes would be mandatory.”

“Oh, they are, and no doubt such would be exceedingly beneficial with the average member of the population, but not with a member of the particular anarchic sect as Ms. Astor happens to be.”

“You had me talking to one of those bomber weirdos? Without any preparation?” Lestrade was appalled and not a little queasy at the thought of how badly he could have done in the situation.

Mycroft shook his head slowly. “No, you allowed us to record a valuable conversation by virtue of appearing as you are. You don't have the free time to participate more actively, but no doubt your neighbors feel quite comfortable knocking on your door and coming to you about all sorts of security worries. My sympathies to the actual head of your neighborhood association; no doubt he feels a little displaced.”

“But I'm a police officer; she didn't sense that?” Lestrade pointed out.

“Ms. Astor and her compatriots are more familiar with a different sort of authority, and I do believe that Ms. Astor may be suffering from distracting personal problems, thus the emphasis on catering.”

“Right, the catering,” Lestrade said flatly. Good grief, to think that each bit of conversation would be dissected like that. On the other hand, he did the same with his officers whenever they had a drugs sting or anti-fraud operation. “So, she bakes to make herself feel better.”

“Quite,” Mycroft answered, seemingly oblivious to Lestrade's biting sarcasm. “Of course, the catering business itself does not exist, but this piece of information about her state of mind is intriguing.”

“Good for you,” Lestrade said shortly, eyes focused out the window, where he could see the granite grey corner of the police station coming into view.

Before he could get out, Mycroft's hand landed on his wrist, and Lestrade resisted an annoyed flinch. Lunch had definitely ended on a bad note, and he preferred to get out and keep his dignity before snapping at Mycroft, who'd probably react the same way as Sherlock did when John finally lost patience and got angry: with bemusement.

“Mr. Ellington will retire by the end of the year,” Mycroft said rather abruptly. “I understand that you find your current line of work entirely fulfilling; however, on the slight chance that you may be interested in a different path...”

Good God, Lestrade had the feeling that the awkwardness would be increased two-fold if he let Mycroft finish that sentence. “Yeah, thanks, um, but I'm good here,” he muttered incoherently.

Mycroft nodded, looking a bit unsettled himself, and Lestrade was happy to leave it there, but the hand on his wrist stayed. “You indulged me today, and if I am not trespassing, I would like to remark that your current victim has a rather unusual hair color, a rose gold color that is rare in the hair dye industry. I would suggest canvassing Whitstable, the closest town to have a store that would keep such a product in stock.”

Thinking that it would be churlish to accuse Mycroft of interfering in his work and, God forbid, sound like Sherlock, Lestrade mustered up a smile and leaned in for a quick kiss before nearly throwing himself out the car and jogging up the steps.

Donovan looked up from her paperwork and gave him an uneasy look. “You all right, then?” she asked, looking dubious, eyes sweeping up his pensive expression.

“Yeah,” Lestrade sighed, setting down his lunch leftovers on the desk. If he were twenty years younger, he'd have pushed Mycroft down onto the car seat and gotten intimate and avoided the root problem, but as it were, he was too mature and would have to deal with it. “Yeah, think I've got a lead for the mermaid case.”

They pulled in some others and together called all the grocery and convenience stores in Whitstable before narrowing down their victims list to three neighborhoods where the local shops kept the rose gold hair dye in stock.

Lestrade stretched his arms tiredly, watching the other yawn and rub their temples after all that telephoning. “All right, let's check those three out. Smith, Hernandez, and Jones; you're a group. Donovan, Wilson, and An—” Donovan looked rather uncomfortable, eyes downcast and lips pursed.

“—and myself,” Lestrade finished. “So, Anderson, Nelson, and Young; you're a group. Oh, sorry, Gupta, wasn't forgetting you; you're with me too. My group, we'll do the biggest neighborhood then. Only fair.”

He watched as Donovan and Anderson got their coats without getting within a meter of each other, quite an accomplishment in the cramped central room. He hoped they'd do without any intervention on his part. He wasn't in the mood to act as an agony aunt, considering his own current difficulties with Mycroft.

 

Whitstable could have looked idyllic and probably did in the warm light of summer, but winter was coming on, and the trees looked desiccated with their bare limbs twisting up towards the sky.

Once at the quiet neighborhood, Lestrade took the first couple of doors on the left, and he sent Donovan and the others to knock up the rest.

The young college student he woke from an afternoon nap squinted at the morgue photo taken of the victim's face and looked ill. “Bollocks, you think that's one of my neighbors? I really hope not. Well, I don't recognize her, but I haven't lived here properly for five years. Had university, then grad school. I'm just back for my cousin's wedding.”

“All right, but let me know if you think you remember. Even if you're not sure.” Lestrade turned to see Donovan standing outside a blue shuttered house; she waved him over, a grim expression on her face.

“I think I've found the family. Not that they're willing to acknowledge it,” Donovan said.

“Why not?” Lestrade asked, frowning. “Sense any homicidal vibes from any of them?”

“Do blatant hostility and quite possibly sexism count?” Donovan asked dryly. They headed back up to the front door, and Lestrade knocked hard. It swung open with a bang, and a red-faced man stormed out, clearly about to give another verbal one-two. He stuttered to a halt upon seeing two police officers, but his manner didn't grow much more deferential.

“What's it, then?” He demanded gruffly. “I told you I don't have a daughter.” Lestrade wasn't inclined to believe him, not with the sad-faced woman and sullen teenage boy hanging behind him. The boy caught Lestrade's eye with the upraised finger he held towards his father's back.

“Right, you told Sergeant Donovan that,” Lestrade said amiably. “But for the sake of our investigation, you'll need to have a look at the crime scene photos.”

“Crime scene? Oh, God!” The woman lunged forward and grabbed the photos from Donovan's rising hand. “Ohh, oh, oh, no, no. My girl, my little girl.” She moaned horrifically, tears shedding down her cheeks.

“You fucking bastard!” She grabbed her husband around the neck, all weight on him, feet hanging off the floor as he cursed and swung her around. “Get a hold of yourself, woman!”

“Hey!” Donovan barked and pulled off the wife while Lestrade got in between them, propelling the husband away. Breaking down further, sobbing hysterically, the woman allowed herself to be led back in the house to the sofa, where Donovan handed her a handkerchief.

The man glared furiously at his wife over Lestrade's shoulder, and Lestrade placed a firm hand on him. “You have a daughter then.”

When the man refused to answer, a bitter answer came from the teenager, who was still hanging back. “I have an older sis. But we're to pretend that she doesn't exist. That she's dead.” The last bit was a pointed shot aimed at his father. “I haven't seen her since they kicked her out two years ago for being lesbian. Guess I never will now.”

“Is that so,” Lestrade stated flatly. He turned back to the father and demanded, “Got an alibi for last Tuesday?”

“Get a fucking warrant,” the man grunted before grabbing the heavy metal rake leaning against the outside wall and scrapping away determinedly at his lawn.

Since the teenager seemed more cooperative, Lesrade moved the conversation to him. “Do you know where your sister lived afterwards?”

“No, my jackass father said he'd tan my hide—and hers—if I tried to visit.”

“Remember any of her friends' names?”

The boy shook his head regretfully. “Jessamy kept to herself. We neither of us liked to bring people home, and she always felt a bit uncomfortable about not being able to finish college like her friends. She stayed in the neighborhood for a few months, but everyone knew why she got kicked out. She did seem happier the month before she left. She might have met some new people, but I don't know. I'm...I was her kid brother, you know? Seven year age difference. She didn't really talk to me about her problems.”

Lestrade nodded understandingly. He looked at the teenage boy, standing there with hard eyes and an angry twist to his mouth. He wondered whether the boy would regret his smart mouth once left alone with his father. He asked a few more questions and waited until the man had thrown his rake to the ground and left the yard. When Lestrade heard the click of the TV remote and the obnoxious chatter start up, he handed the boy his card after scrawling his cell number on it. “Let me know if I can do anything to help. Not just if you remember something.”

The boy took his card and stared down at it. He looked back up with a faint smirk. “Thanks, but, you know, my old man's a bastard in many ways, but he doesn't slap us around. Much. We'll have a screaming match tonight, but I won't wind up dead any time soon. Find the fucking freak who killed my sis, all right?”

“The brother didn't know too much. You get anything from the mother?” Lestrade asked, back in his office.

“She wasn't very coherent, naturally, but she did say she thought her daughter was going to some sort of support group. She found a flier once but burned it before her husband came home and got angry. She did remember that the group was based in London.” Donovan tapped her papers against the desk thoughtfully.

“I don't expect I'll ever get married,” she said abruptly, shaking her head.

It was an unusually personal comment for Donovan to make, but Lestrade took it in stride. “I got married once, can't say I've lost the taste for it, but I'd go in with both eyes wide open before saying 'I do' and signing the paper.”

“Well, good thing Gretna Green is rather out of the way for me.” Donovan gave him a rare smile before they returned to business.

“How many gay support groups are there in London?”

“No idea, but maybe we should check out the biggest one. Chances are higher that she would have seen the flier for it.”

“Makes sense. Not sure the group would take kindly to our questions though. Better have someone help ease us in.”

 

Lestrade walked up the stone path and reached out to knock on the door before catching himself. He scoffed sadly at himself and took out his key.

Rather hoping that Mycroft wasn't actually home, he walked quietly to the study, where Mycroft usually stayed when he did leave work at a reasonable time. The room turned out to be empty, and Lestrade stood there for a long time, looking out the window, trying to sort through his unhappy thoughts as the sky turned to dusk.

Finally, calling himself an idiot and worse, he went to the bedroom and simply fell onto the embroidered covers and let himself drift off with the smell of cedar and cardamom soothing his throbbing temples.

The bed was big, but it still dipped noticeably under the new weight. Lestrade woke up abruptly and found Mycroft with his tie off and collar undone.

“Hullo,” Lestrade said through his dry throat. Mycroft, exercising his mind reading powers with timeliness, handed him a glass of water.

Lestrade reached out for the cool glass and almost self-consciously brushed his fingers over Mycroft's.

“It's late,” Mycroft said simply, and his tone gently suggested that Lestrade go back to sleep.

Instead he shoved the glass onto the nightstand, quite probably spilling the remaining water, and pulled Mycroft down with a firm kiss that quickly deepened. Mycroft smelled of faint sweat and stale cologne, but he breathed it in gladly, pressing closer, craving the intimacy. He slid his hand slowly from neck to thigh, appreciating the skin that warmed against him.

Mycroft murmured something against his mouth, and he pushed a knee close at just the right angle, swallowing the moan that welled up. He wrapped his hand tightly around Mycroft and watched the vulnerability that seemed to appear in the closing eyes and parted lips as he quickened his pace.

Lestrade pressed his face against Mycroft's neck and tried to memorize the feel of the man thrusting up against him and the gentle feel of hurried breaths against his shoulder, as he moved his hand.

When Mycroft, looking rather flushed with dark eyes, returned the favor, Lestrade wrapped his arms tightly around the man's back, and felt at once guilty and darkly satisfied about the marks he had to be leaving with his blunt nails.

Mycroft, biting at his neck, didn't seem to mind at all. And he seemed to leave a mark for every one of Lestrade's.

Half an hour later, after panting long enough to get his breath back, Lestrade remembered and then ventured, “You were going to say something.”

Mycroft looked at him, features dim in the faint light from the street lamps, and then leaned in to repeat the words against his lips with another kiss that lasted a very long time.

 

“Hullo, Greg, this is my sister Harry. Harry, Greg.” Lestrade shook hands with John Watson's sister, and she looked almost embarrassed.

“You're the first of John's friends that I've met. I suppose he's rather ashamed of me,” Harry said resignedly.

John sighed. “I'm doing you a favor, Harry. My only other friend is Sherlock, and you don't ever want to meet him. He'll make my nagging about your drinking seem offhand.”

“I have to agree about that, although I'm none too flattered that I'm John's most harmless friend,” Lestrade joked.

Harry had a beautiful smile despite her sad eyes. “I'm glad that John's not stuck in his room same as always, if he's managed to befriend a police officer.” Then she frowned. “Unless...?”

“Ha, no, John only shows up to bail Sherlock out. And he's actually doing me a favor this time for my current case. I hope I'm not being untactful if I ask whether you're a member of the local lesbian support group?”

Harry shook her head. “I don't mind at all. In fact, I wish more people would ask questions. But, well, I haven't been back for quite some time. I...I had some personal problems take precedence. I could call Imogene though—she's the head of the group—and let her know that you're not some misogynistic gay basher. But she's usually all right. Some of the others might be a little wary after having run-ins with homophobic bastards.”

“Could you call her right now?” Lestrade asked.

After Harry stepped out, Lestrade elbowed John in the shoulder. “Sherlock hasn't met your sister yet? That's unexpected, seeing as how he's your friendly neighborhood stalker.”

John shrugged. “Sometimes I think Sherlock doesn't remember I have a life outside of him. It's actually been something of a relief that he's, what, in Tibet right now. Boring, yeah, but still a relief.”

“Suppose you'll get tired of the peace right when he gets back,” Lestrade commented shrewdly before taking a bite of his bacon and lettuce sandwich.

Later, outside the cafe, Lestrade tried to will himself into nonexistence while John and Harry had one of those whispered sibling conversations. He tried not to get the gist of anything, but he still couldn't help but overhear that Harry was apparently having trouble with her wife. Ex-wife?

His ears twitched involuntarily at the fragmented snippets.

“Don't, John...Clara tries to love...but forgiveness isn't the...”

“She called...thought you were dead...expect it sooner or later...send an e-mail...”

“I want to...need to wait and see...let me handle it, all right?”

“Are you going to your...avoiding bars...don't get angry...I'll leave it...”

Harry broke off the near-argument with tight lips and a watery smile that she aimed at Lestrade before shaking his hand and rushing off into the quickly crowding streets.

“Should I ask?” Lestrade ventured, watching her go.

John shook his head silently.

 

Oh, “a little wary” was putting it rather lightly, Lestrade thought as he did his best to keep a relaxed smile on his face despite the aggressive looks that some in the circle of women were shooting at him.

The gray-haired woman in the middle—Imogene, Lestrade figured—was the only one who didn't seem at all bothered at his presence, and she actually gave him a maternal look before sending a mildly scolding look around. “Everyone, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade,” she announced. “I'm afraid that he has awful, awful news. He believes that a body he found by the wharf is our Jessamy Andrews. The body was...quite badly mutilated.”

A mousy young woman let out a shocked cry and began sobbing while the other group members yelled or wailed in sorrow and anger in turn.

“Was it a gay basher?” A black haired woman asked, nose ring flashing menacingly as she swung to her neighbor without waiting for a response. “I told you: we all ought to get gun licenses or carry blackjacks—more than just bloody pepper spray!”

“I can't believe she's dead! Are you sure?” Another woman wailed a bit incoherently against her friend's shoulder. “That's—I can't believe that!”

A rainbow-haired heavyset woman shook her head mournfully. “That Jessamy was so bright, so sweet, so cheerful.”

“What do you mean, mutilated? Oh, God! Why do we have such violence in the world?” Another woman moaned to herself in horror and covered her face with a wool scarf.

“Maybe her abusive dad finally did her in!” The youngest member of the group—a red haired pixie girl—shouted excitedly, waving her arms around until the others stared her into silence for being rather inappropriate.

“We're checking out the father's alibi, but Ms. Andrew's been living away from home for more than a year, and it doesn't sound like she ever went back for a visit. Does anyone know where she lived? Or have her cell phone number?” Lestrade took advantage of the sudden quiet to ask.

“I think she lived in Camden,” Imogene said thoughtfully. “But I'm afraid that I haven't got her number on me.”

“I've got it,” the dark haired woman said, nose ring aimed at Lestrade, as she dug through her denim jacket to reach her mobile. She scrolled through the contacts quickly and then read off the digits.

The mousy young woman raised her hand timidly. She gulped out between stuttering breaths, “Um...Jessamy's partner, Ivy, does she know yet?”

Lestrade raised an interested brow. “We haven't heard about Ivy, but we can send someone over to let her know.”

The mood in the room, already morose and tense, seemed to grow darker. Lestrade shot a look at Imogene, and she answered his unspoken question. “Jessamy and Ivy met at group, and they used to come together, but for the past couple of meetings, Ivy hasn't shown up.” She paused and seemed to pick her words carefully. “I had the impression that Ivy was under the weather and needed Jessamy's care.”

The dark-haired woman snorted. “Well, Jessamy was having you on, Imogene. I talked her into taking tea with me one time, and she finally let it out that Ivy was being an altogether jealous bitch, thought Jessamy was having some dirty affair with Candace over there.” She jerked a shoulder towards the mousy girl, who flushed a deep red and stared down at the floor.

She mumbled a defense, barely audible across the room from Lestrade. “It wasn't like that at all, Elise. Jessamy was just helping me figure out what to do. I, I don't know what I'd do if my parents disowned me like Jessamy's did her. Jessamy was just helping me to be brave.”

A rather pretty woman with waist-length hair, who'd been quiet all the way through, cleared her throat roughly. “You all think that Ivy actually had something to do with it? Ivy's a woman; even if she and Jessamy had fights, I don't think she'd mutilate Jessamy.”

The woman with the wool scarf nodded rapidly. “I don't think Ivy would do such a thing; I mean, well, women know how to work their problems out peacefully! We're, we're mediators; it's not normal for us to do abuse.”

The pixie girl perked up right away and shook her finger at the older woman. “Nope, you're wrong there! My cousins's a lesbian too, and she dumped one of her girlfriends for trying to smack her around during arguments.”

“Either way,” Lestrade broke in. “I'd still like to speak with Ivy. Does anyone have her information?”

 

“The dad's in the clear,” Donovan said. “He may be an incredible arsehole, but he didn't kill his daughter. His supervisor, who seems no fan of his, said that Mr. Andrews worked late the whole week during our time period. Apparently, they had some shipping problems.”

Lestrade mulled that over. “All right then, supposing it's not some random killer, we'd best take Ivy Owens in for questioning.”

When they entered the bakery, Lestrade scanned for a tall brunette (appearance courtesy of a candid photo taken by Elise), and he walked to the counter where he saw her hefting a heavy bag of All-Purpose Flour. She turned, saw him, and settled her shoulders with a heavily resigned air, and she held her hands out, melancholy flickering in and out of her eyes.

When Lestrade sat down across from Ivy, he wasn't expecting a fight, but he wasn't expecting her level of cooperation. She looked at him with those strangely quiet eyes, and she started talking.

“I know you're here about Jessamy.” Ivy smiled wistfully. “I should have just tossed the body directly into the ocean, but I missed her so much already. And I couldn't just let the fish get at her. You don't know, but when I was with her, everything seemed so wonderful. Jessamy smiled like an angel, and everyone loved her.” Ivy smiled dreamily and toyed with the silver necklace around her neck. She rubbed the small clam shell pendant lying softly against her sweater.

“I used to tell her that she looked just like the cartoon version of the little mermaid. And I'd ask her if she was happy that she had left her family for me, and she'd tell me yes. Then one day she didn't.” Ivy's lips trembled a bit, and she nibbled away a bit of her lipstick.

“I just wanted her to be mine again,” she looked plaintively at Lestrade. “No one else loved me like she did. And I could never feel that way with someone else. I just thought, if I could pretend...it was our story. Our happy story.”

 

“She just sat in the interview room and explained everything,” Lestrade, still bemused, told Mycroft on their walk around the park on their rare mutual weekend afternoon off. “She was so calm, it was bloody unnerving. Like it couldn't be helped that she got completely mad about a fairy tale and killed her girlfriend.”

Lestrade knew he was rambling, and he was grateful that Mycroft was just letting him talk. He shook his head and patted at his coat pockets unconsciously, craving a cigarette so badly he wanted to steer Mycroft toward the smoky barbecue he could smell across the park.

“Fuck, she sounded so sane, she acted like they just had a little domestic. Yes, sir, nothing to see there! Just a dead body! God, she strangled and dismembered the poor girl! And did God knows what else.” He sputtered through more of the case, and for once, Lestrade felt a little glad, not resentful, that Mycroft couldn't talk about his work. He didn't have to feel badly about dominating the conversation.

Jessamy Andrew's case wasn't the only one that's gotten into him and thrown him off, but still, he hadn't had one of those for a while. It happened almost like clockwork. He's fine, he's cool, he expects the nastiness. Then boom! Flat on his back in metaphorical shock at how God-awful the world could be, how people could be.

They took another turn around the park before Mycroft sat down on one of the park's curved stone benches and drew Lestrade down to join him. They rested together there for a long moment, shoulders touching, as they absorbed the idyllic splash of the fountain water, the chitter of the squirrels in the trees, the gentle wind stirring up the few leaves on the ground. Gradually, his nerves felt less frayed.

Lestrade had almost dozed off sitting up when Mycroft abruptly started talking. “Gregory, I dislike making you uncomfortable; however, I feel that I should make something clear.”

Lestrade started. Was Mycroft breaking up with him? Now? Even after what he had said that night when they were together?

“Yeah?” he asked cautiously, trying not to jump to conclusions. Or break down in humiliating fashion.

Mycroft looked him right in the eyes with a queer expression on his face. Lestrade did some quick deciphering before he realized that earnestness was trying to make its home on Mycroft's patrician features.

“I don't easily entertain thoughts of our relationship's disintegration,” Mycroft said somberly. “But it is in my nature to entertain all possibilities.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft held a hand up and went on doggedly.

“And I want to reassure you that no matter how things may end between us, I would never take undue actions regarding your person.”

The sudden onset of formal language, excessive even from Mycroft, puzzled Lestrade's sleep-bogged mind long afterwards, and at the time, he had inanely said, “All right, good” before pulling Mycroft off the park bench and heading zombie-like to the irresistible barbecue.

 

Lestrade threw back another shot and signaled the bartender, who obligingly set down another golden glass to hasten him on the way towards drunkenness.

John, sitting right next to him, was already three sheets to the wind and was grinning from ear to ear at the rugby game on the wide screen mounted above. They both cheered with suspect joy as the favored home team rugby player made an effective tackle that, by the looks of it, might have broken a bone.

Lestrade squinted at his glass and wondered if he was drunk enough for the conversation; the whiskey seemed to wink at him with its glints of light, and he decided that he may as well get it over with: he'd say the words and acknowledge their reality.

“I think Mycroft just made me a promise that my horribly tortured corpse wouldn't be found in the Thames if I broke up with him,” Lestrade announced, still feeling rather disbelieving. “I really, really hadn't considered that possibility before.”

John's eyebrows shot up, shock breaking through the vagueness of alcohol. “Lovely of Mycroft to consider that for you then.”

“Isn't it just,” Lestrade agreed dryly. Then, because he could give as well as take sympathy, he asked, “Sherlock back driving you mad?”

John shuddered. “Sherlock brought me back a yak from Tibet. He said it matched my favorite sweater.”

“Is it still alive?” Lestrade couldn't help asking. It's, just, he knows Sherlock.

“Ye—no, I'm not sure.” John frowned down at his glass and tapped worriedly on his phone before getting distracted by the bottle of whiskey the bartender had resignedly placed between them, so that she could attend to her other customers. They continued to mindlessly watch the game replay and savor having company while being alone.

“Good God, ever wonder what hanging around a bloke like Sherlock does to you?” Lestrade finally muttered, half into his glass.

John hummed thoughtfully like a demented music box before straightening up a bit and pointing a sage finger. He looked rather pleased with his cleverness. “Ever wonder what hanging around you does to a bloke like Mycroft?”

Lestrade considered that for a moment and then nodded slowly. John nodded back. And then they twisted their faces in mutual commiseration and understanding, rather helped along by their vast libations.

 

A/N: Well, it was a struggle, but I'm pretty happy with how this turned out. If I get another good idea, I could get a proper series going on here.


End file.
